


Feeding Jailbirds

by LigeiaMaloy



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Male Friendship, Prison, Sexual Abuse, non-con, ring-of-fired, tw: rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LigeiaMaloy/pseuds/LigeiaMaloy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problems didn't stop when Spy and Scout ended up in jail, the death sentence as good as sealed.<br/>But right now, Spy has another problem at hand - Scout's mom would kill him if he didn't watch out for her little boy. However, said "little boy" doesn't make this an easy task. </p><p>Always being his cheerful, confident and cocksure of himself, Scout is blind to the dangers a bunch of hungry jailbirds could mean for a young, oblivious man without his weapons. </p><p>Spy is doing his best, but how do you warn somebody who doesn't want to be warned?</p><p>---------------------------------------------</p><p>Valve publishes a wonderful comic, a firework of dark humor... and then there's THIS a**h*le (*ahem* yours truely) who has to try and spoil the fun again with drama, oh dear.</p><p>Dear Boys and Girls, prison is not always as funny as it may sound.</p><p>Hope you still enjoy my contribution to the Ring-of-Fired-update :)</p><p>(my French is very basic, so if you see mistakes, don't hesitate to inform me, and I'll correct them. Furthermore I give up: no matter from where I copy the text, it always messes the layout up, I apologize and hope it's still readable.)</p><p>------------------------------------------------</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeding Jailbirds

**Feeding Jailbirds**

 

Oui, yes, I will keep an eye on him. Do not worry. I promise to you. He calls you later. Au revoir, ma chérie.” Spy sighed when he put down the receiver and rubbed his temples, wondering if he would ever get rid of this nagging pain in his head again. The last few days had been a living hell for the Frenchman, and he still didn't understand why he had agreed to Scout's plan in the first place.

He should have known that there had been no way it could have worked, in fact, he had known it already before Scout had finished explaining his newest scheme to him.

 

It had been bound to go wrong, but what would have been Spy's options? Letting Scout go alone, watching as he walked right into the trap?

 

It would have saved Spy the trouble with the police, but even then, even when put in jail and on death row – to explain Scout's mother why he had allowed Scout to dash off alone would have been the far worse fate. It was bad enough that she blamed him anyway, for getting her little boy into hot water.

 

“I swear, Scout, one day...! Nom de dieu! And again, even in the face of la mort, I still have to babysit ce débile.” A window allowed a view in the prison yard. Spy's headache became worse as his frown deepened. Scout was wasting now time doing what he was best at – being loud, obnoxious and firmly believing that putting himself on a pedestal would win him everyone's attention and admiration.

 

Spy had no doubt that Scout was delighted that for once, his recitals of self-praise gathered a small crowd around him. A grim smirk appeared on Spy's face as he wondered if Scout would still be so delighted when he finally became aware of the kind of attention he was attracting. Even while standing inside and unable to hear one word, Spy saw the excited flush on the fool's grinning face.

 

“Clueless idiot. Ah, Monsieur, please, do accompany me outside!”

 

A jailer had been waiting patiently for Spy to finish his phone call, eagerly pretending to not listen to the conversation the French had with the Scout's mother. Now, that the Spy waved for him, he put the newspaper aside – Spy caught a glimpse of the title page, and another bolt of pain shot through his head. Again, his face below the headline, which was bad enough, but nothing aggravated him more than the Scout's cocky, almost proud grin next to his picture.

 

The jailer didn't pay any attention to his moody prisoner. With a groan as loud as the one coming from the chair when the jailer relieved it from his weigh, he rose and walked over to the door. He signaled Spy with a nod to follow him, and the Frenchman only too happily obliged. The bleak gray of the walls was depressing.

 

Yet he considered himself lucky that they weren't confined to a cell all day. Instead, they were treated like normal inmates, a thought that didn't make the Spy proud, but he decided to have a look at the bright side. The company in this establishment was not to his liking, a walk outside while breathing fresh air was. When it gave him a chance to escape the Scout's constant blathering for a few minutes, the better.

 

With a sigh, he opened his cigarette case, picked one and gratefully accepted the light that was offered to him by the jailer.

It was one of the absurdities of this place, Spy thought. They were allowed to carry cigarettes, but unless one of the officers or guards helped them out, they were useless. Matches and lighters were forbidden.

 

The guard joined one of his colleagues who was assigned to keep an eye on the prisoners, leaving Spy to himself and his stares of disapproval towards Scout and his small group of listeners.

 

“...and BAMM! NINE freaking robots, can ya believe that? Uh, of course ya can! It was me against them, and I tell ya, for a second I feared I might be in trouble, but no! Trust me, I gave them the beating of their live... or whatever it is when you are a robot, who gives a fuck. The point is, I didn't break a sweat, leaped into the air and...!”

 

Spy rolled his eyes. Scout had taken the idea of a pedestal literally – standing on a stone bench, he stuck out from the other prisoners, not only in height, as Spy noticed. Most of the others present were several years older, the younger ones next to Scout in their early 30s, as Spy assumed, seizing them up with worry. In a fist fight, he and Scout would luck out, both being of a slender built. He didn't doubt that Scout could stand his ground for a while, against one or two of them.

But from what he observed, there were at least five or six who admired the Scout for anything, but certainly not for his wild tales and bubbly personality.

 

The lack of his holster and gun was disturbing; Spy had never noticed before how often he reached for his weapons to reassure himself he carried them with him since they had been taken away from him. Maybe he was worrying to much. Their stay in this part of the prison was only temporarily – in a day or two, after the trial, they would be moved into the high-security wing, as convicted killers officially sentenced to death.

It was safe to say that he had other worries than the cocky brat and a few brutes that sneaked around him like hyenas drooling over a piece of fresh meat.

 

But a promise was a promise – he had given Scout's mother his word and as long as there was a spark of life inside of him, he would stay true to hit, with all the inconveniences that might come with them.

 

All good resolutions and honorable ideals made him miss his weapons even more. A whisper in his head warned him – he should better think of something. There had to be something around he could use as a substitute for a dagger; the odds were high he would need it.

Spy knew the voice quite well, it had proven itself to be a reliable adviser more than once in the past.

 

Even without his instincts he knew he better tried to either steal a knife from the dinner table, or made one himself. Sooner or later somebody would ask to be stabbed, that was the gospel truth when he considered the circumstances.

 

If experiences had taught him anything during the last years, then it was a rule as unshakable as any mathematical formula:

 

Scout equals Trouble².

 

“At a word, Monsieur.” Spy flipped the remains of his cigarette to the ground, grinding it with the heel of his shoe into the gravel. One of Scout's listeners had left the group and was heading towards the chatting jailers. The moment he walked past the Spy, the French tapped against his shoulder.

 

A silent minute of mutual eying followed.

 

Vis-à-vis with the fellow, Spy's worry was growing. He was a bit taller than this man, but only an inch or two that wouldn't help him in a fight, especially when this guy's friends joined the fun. It was difficult to tell where the meaty neck ended and the broad shoulders began. The arms were more massive than the Frenchman's legs and were covered in – cheap and tasteless, as Spy noted in his mind – tattoos. This perfect specimen of a delinquent prone to physical assault and manslaughter wouldn't pose a threat to Spy – if he had a knife at hand to bury it in his back.

 

Behind him, he heard the jailers talk. Spy decided to take the risk, certain that diplomacy wasn't one of his soon-to-be opponent's strong points, hoping that the guards would put a stop to any violent outbreak while at least some of his bones were still in their place.

 

“I must ask you to not harass the boy.” A clear announcement, declared with firm authority – the best way to deal with individuals like this, as Spy was convinced. The beady eyes and the smell coming from at least one rotting tooth demanded more self-control over his own expression than Spy had imagined, but he assumed that a disgusted flinch wouldn't help him in this case.

 

“'Yar his sugar-daddy? Better keep a close eye on yar toy when yer don't want Big John and his buddies to play with it.” The man - who had probably just introduced himself as Big John, if Spy wasn't mistaken - celebrated his, in his eyes, clever response with barking laughter, revealing more desolated teeth.

 

“I do not joke. He is not a toy.” Spy was relieved that his interference ended with a fist in his face like the last time he came to the Scout's help, yet he found it more and more difficult to keep his countenance.

 

“Looks like a toy to me.” Big John crossed his arms in front of his wide chest. He still smiled, but Spy had been working too long in his profession to misread the silent threat as a sign of friendliness.

 

“Whaddya plan to do? A dry beanstalk like ya? When we gonna test what swallows more, his mouth or his ass?”

 

This conversation in all its vulgarity was below Spy. He had a few retorts ready, one of them included fist breaking John's bulbous nose. The latter would probably be the only reply that would leave an impression on this dimwitted son of a bitch. However, it was more likely that he would be the one with a smashed face, and he wouldn't be of much use if he was taken to the infirmary. As for any other kind of answer – there was no use to discuss with a guy who was as classy as a bug squished by a rock.

 

This could be troublesome.

 

“Scout!” The tone of Spy's voice was sharp enough to make the Scout's head turn.

 

“Come over here!”

 

But Scout had already recovered his wit.

 

“Fuck ya, frogs, can't ya see I'm busy?”

 

 _'Ungrateful idiot.'_ Spy felt his patience running low, actually glad he was stripped off of his weapons. Being used to be connected to the respawn-device for years, he feared he would have thrown a knife right between the Scout's eyes – if he had had his knife.

 

“I have a message for you. From your mother.” With satisfaction, Spy watched how the Scout turned crimson, although it bothered him that the fool obviously was ashamed to look like a mother's boy to his new 'friends' when everyone of the old team knew how fond Scout was of his mom, and respected him for that.

The defiant expression Scout's face showed while he reluctantly climbed down his stage and walked over to them made him look ten years younger, Spy thought scornfully.

 

“What did she want? Make it quick, I was just coming to the best part of the story.” Raising his chin as he made his lofty demand, Scout shot a challenging glare at the Spy.

 

“Ask her yourself, she waits on the pone.” This wasn't even a real lie; Spy was certain that Scout's mother was impatiently sitting in her small kitchen, slowly going crazy in her worry with every passing minute the phone didn't ring.

 

Scout opened his mouth, but John patted him on his shoulder.

 

“Go, son. There ain't no better lady in a man's life than a tiny mother. Listen to your daddy.”

 

While Spy had to agree with the sentiment of the first part, he felt like penetrating John's brain with a bullet for the last.

 

“He's not my Daddy!”

 

Spy had to admit there lay something in the honesty of Scout's protest that _was_ amusing.

 

“No? Bet he wants to be, look at the creepy smirk.” The group of men that watched the Scout before had now gathered around the trio, chuckling at John's remark.

 

“Fuck, no thanks. Mom has class. Let's go.”

 

Feeling his headache growing stronger once more, Spy failed to believe how a man at the age of 23 could be so oblivious, but he had to pay kudos to the fool's mother – to shelter him from one of the nastiest, darkest side of men was quite an achievement, considering the neighborhood where she raised her boys.

 

“Yo, kiddo!” John showed again his deceiving smile, and Spy wasn't even disappointed any more when he saw that Scout fell for it.

 

“Me and the boys gonna have a game of cards tonight. If ya promise to leave ya daddy at home, ya can join some real men!”

 

“Sure, why no- .... hey! Don't pull me!” he snapped when he was suddenly dragged forward by a disgruntled Spy.

 

*

 

“What the hell was that about anyway?”

 

“Scout. Please stand still or sit down.” Spy was lying on his bed. He had given up on cursing the thin, hard mattress. His lucky streak had been over months ago with the end of the Mann Co he used to know, so why should he have expected to find any sign of comfort here, in a prison? Scout had been pacing their cell since they had returned from calling his mother; his footsteps and his steady torrent of questions, insults and accusations slowly changed Spy's headache into a solid migraine.

 

Spy waited a few seconds. The best way to tell a rhetorical question apart from a real inquiry was, in Scout's case, to be silent and see if he prattled away without a break or gave the listener enough time to even open his mouth.

 

This time, Scout waited for an answer.

 

“These are not friends, Scout.” Keeping his eyes closed, he took another pull of his cigarette. “You trust them too quickly.”

 

“Bullshit!” Scout scoffed in such contempt that Spy waited for the sound of him spitting to the ground.. Fortunately, it didn't came.

 

“Yeah, the bunch's kinda weird, but hell, that's prison for you! Damn, where I'm from, the streets are full with jailbirds!”

 

Spy gave a snort, thinking of the small, cozy home of Scout's family. True, the building was as old as the street it was standing in, and the neighborhood wasn't the best, but also not the worst. Even if he hadn't spent a few visits there in the past – he knew he could trust the judgment of Scout's mother. She was a practical, reasonable woman whose only self-deception was that she sometimes forgot that her innocent baby boy had turned into a rude young man with more confidence than it was good for him.

 

“Scout, I do try to warn you. They are not in prison because they stole apples or skipped school. These man are killers, robbers, rapists. Do not get close to them.”

 

“Shut up, that's not true, not John and his friends,” Scout brushed the warning aside, finally, to Spy's relief, standing still.

 

“Is that so? Now I am curious. Why do you think they are here?” Spy opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows, pointing the burning end of his cigarette into Scout's direction.

 

“It was a misunderstanding. The wrong place at the wrong time. John told me that he and...”

 

Spy's sudden fit of laughter interrupted him.

 

“My, my, mon petit, and you believe him? Oh, this is gold! How delicously oblivious! This is adorable!” Holding his stomach while he was shaking with laughter, Spy changed from laughing to coughing, almost choking at his own violent snorts.

 

“Yeah, of course a shapshifting rat like YOU thinks that everyone is a liar, like yaself. Hope ya choke on yer cigarette. Faggot.” Scout shrugged.

“I'm no fool, I know how to deal with guys like that.” He leaned back against his chair, lifted his gaze to inspect the ceiling with an ostensibly bored expression. He sure couldn't care less about the opinion of a stuffy old man like the Spy.

 

Suddenly, he was grabbed by the collar of his shirt and pulled up from his chair.

 

“What the...?!” His yelp of surprise was cut off when he found himself suddenly facing the wall, the impact pressing the air out of his lungs.

 

“Spy!” Rasping against the concrete surface of the wall, this was all Scout could say. He tried to catch his breath, but was hardly able to inhale. The Spy didn't waste a second of the Scout's confusion – swiftly, he seized Scout's arms and shoved them over his head. One hand wrapped around both of the slim wrists, he held Scout's hand in place. With his body, he shoving him closer against the wall.

 

“Fight me,” Spy hissed into Scout's ear.

 

“What the fuck, man, why – ouch!” A bright pain blinded him for a second when Spy took hold of the back of Scout's head, smashing his face against the wall.

 

“Did you not say you know how to deal with these men? Prove it, and I will not say another word. Show me, cheeky, oblivious bunny.” He felt the Scout shudder at his taunting growls.

 

“Show me how strong you are. Without a gun, without your bat, once they take hold of you. You think you can fight off half a dozen of men? Then this is not difficult, to fight me alone.” The hands struggled under his grip, trying to pull away, but he held them in a vice of his fingers, already leaving red marks on the white skin. Scout wasn't a weakling, but he made a mistake when he misjudged Spy's own strength.

 

“I wait. Show me what you have got. Or maybe...” Spy chuckled. Scout was caught between him and the wall. He made sure that his victim didn't have enough room to move and wiggle himself free. Time to put his free hand to use.

 

“Or maybe you want me to find it out myself?”

 

“Stop, asshole! Dammit, stop!” The pathetic shriek was too weak and hoarse to impress Spy, but it was all Scout could do; his breathing still hadn't recovered fully. Spy's hand moved down his waist. The smooth leather of Spy's glove felt cold on his skin. Scout was forced to stare in horror at the wall when the hand moved further down, under the waistband of his pants.

 

But when he tried to back away, he only shoved closer against the Spy's groin.

 

Suddenly, he found himself on his knees.

 

The grip was gone, so was the pressure against his back; his hands were free again. His legs had given in, and when he hadn't been held in place anymore, he had slumped down.

 

Spy watched him with a worried expression. It was the brat's own fault, as it would be his own fault when he didn't stay away from really dangerous prisoners.

 

This had already turned out to be more dangerous than he had planed.

 

The short breathing, the lite, athletic body squirming under his own, the firm ass shoved against him when Scout tried to escape his hand...

 

Spy didn't want to imagine the effect this would have on a bunch of brutes who had only been waiting for a victim with smooth, warm skin that could be so easily overpowered. It was bad enough he couldn't deny it had an effect on him.

 

“Scout, do you see know how easily - “ But Spy didn't have time to finish his sentence.

 

Scout had recovered quickly. Driven by rage over his hurt pride, he had jumped back to his feet, snatched the chair he had been sitting on only minutes ago, and hurled it across the room.

 

Spy ducked down, dodging the chair while it missed his head only by inches.

 

“Freaking ASSHOLE! And YOU think you are better than them? YOU dare to look down on others? You ASSHOLE! You freaking PERVERT!” Finally able to fully breath again, Scout yelled at the top of his lungs, his face red with scorn and embarrassment.

 

“Ya know what?” Scout hissed, his chest heaving.

 

“Ya deserve to be here. Hanging is too good for ya. I hope it takes hours before ya ugly neck snaps!”

 

“Scout, calm down, s'il te plaît. I did not really want to harm you. I wanted to show you it is dangerous. Do not trust them. You bite off more than you can chew.” It was difficult for Spy to calm the aggravated young man down, especially as he couldn't remember the last time he was in such a desperate need for a cigarette, to calm his own nerves.

 

“Geez, are ya kidding me?” This time, Scout spit to the floor.

 

“YOU are dangerous here. You SUCK as a friend, and I hope you gonna burn in hell! It was a mistake to ever trust _you_ , ya freaking fake. I'm an idiot! Who always mocked me? Who never listened to my stories? Who always lectures me? Fuck ya and ya 'friendship'!”

 

“Fine, FINE! Have it your way. Enjoy the time with the new friends of yours.” Spy was aware he was making a mistake, but enough was enough. He had tried to talk to him, and to demonstrate him what could happen. He was neither the boy's father nor his 'daddy', and if this fool was too stupid to think for a minute – fine. At least Scout's mother couldn't say he didn't try.

 

He returned to his bed. After finding a position that was somehow close to being comfortable, he chose another cigarette. If Scout thought he had to rage, he was Spy's guest. He let the hateful words bounce off of him, gazing longingly at his cigarette case. The only reminder of his time at Mann Co. Of course the devices that allowed him to change his appearance and to blend in with his surroundings had been removed.

But he had always been fond of the simplicity of the design and the silvery surface that shone like a mirror when polished. Expensive splendor in all its modesty. Ah, the good, old times.

 

He wondered what would happen to the precious object after he was executed. IF he was executed. Somehow, after all the crazy things he had experienced, it was still hard to believe that this should really be the end. Deep in his guts, he felt that this couldn't be the end that was intended for him. Or for this obnoxious, stubborn idiot that was throwing a pillow at him.

 

Slowly, Spy let the smoke escape his lips, watching the white cloud fading into nothingness.

 

“Yo, kiddo!” A sonorous voice coming from the cell door brought Spy back to the reality. There he was, lying on a joke of a bed in a cell he was sharing with an idiot who was about to happily make one of the biggest mistake of his life.

 

A jailer had unlocked the door and signaled Scout to follow.

 

“Is it not too late to chase us out of our picturesque accommodation?” With the wave of Spy's hand, the cigarette drew a circle of smoke into the air; for a second, Spy felt a sudden impulse to set the whole place on fire. A grim smile stole on his face when he thought of what Pyro could do to improve this _lovely_ place.

 

“Not 'us', just the kid is invited,” the guard grunted. Spy rolled his eyes at the smug grin Scout shot at him.

 

“And there is not a rule against prisoners leaving the cell? Oh, and is it not the dark man's shift? What was the name of his... Bob?”

 

“Listen, Frenchy, don't tell me how to do my job. Once in a while, good guys deserve a little fun as a reward, don't you think? Don't think of doing anything funny, Bob will have an eye on you later.”

 

 _'So he is in this at well,'_ Spy concluded, shaking his head. _'You deserve it! You dumb, oblivious airhead! You are so full of yourself that a bait of silly flattery is enough for you to keep running blindly into their trap even if they have their pants down.'_

 

“Have fun with the amiable new friends of yours, Scout.” He lit another cigarette, following the Scout with his eyes when he walked past him.

 

“But do not come to me and whine when this is over.”

 

Scout didn't think him worthy of an answer, and Spy didn't expect any last words from him. He gave a snort when the door closed behind the guard, who might as well have been a butcher leading the lamb to the slaughterhouse.

 

 _'Any last words. This is not the execution. But might as well be, non?'_ Thoughtfully, he played with the cigarette case. The light of the small lamp on the nightstand reflected on the shiny surface and for a moment, he could see the reflection of his face. He hadn't known that the worry was written so clearly over his features, but yet, Scout had been blind to it.

 

“Merde!” Cursing Scout and the world, Spy jumped out of his bed and ran over to the door. Of course nobody answered his knocking. Like Scout before, he began to pace through the room.

 

“Think! Come on, zut alors!” Nothing he found in the small room was of use. A leg of the broken chair could work as a weapon, but that wouldn't help him if he didn't find a way to open the door. Suddenly, he heard footsteps.

 

“'ALLO?” Again, he hammered against the door.

 

“Don't make a ruckus! What's up with you guys? Don't tell me you killed the brat and shut him up for good?”

 

Spy gave a long sigh of relieve. It didn't thrill him so much to hear that he was talking to Bob, but that the guard obviously didn't seem to be aware of the scheme that was going on!

 

Maybe... if he didn't mention the lighter he had snitched from Bob's table when he had passed it earlier...

 

*

 

The sound of his own feet drumming on the floor irritated Spy, yet he didn't stop. Another quick glance on his watch – more than half an hour had passed and his hopes sank with every passing second.

 

He had been a fool, he should have found a way to lure the guard inside the cell, then he could easily have overwhelmed him. He had had a weapon ready! A lengthy piece of wood, the broken leg of the chair, nicely sharp at its pointy end. What else would he have needed to get out of the cell and finally out of the prison, a certain inveterate fool in tow?

 

But no.

 

“Stupidity seems to be contagious.” Gnawing on his bottom lip, he stood up and paced the room for what felt like the 50thtime.

 

The image of the greasy head of John with his foul teeth and the smug smile shoved itself into his mind, accompanied by the dozen of his charming, not lesser greasy and smug buddies.

 

Another five minutes crept by, and Spy's fear of having to inform Scout's mother of the loss of her youngest son became more and more difficult to ignore.

 

Finally, after more than forty minutes, he turned his head and hastened to his bed, sitting down on the edge, the hand already under his pillow, feeling for the round end of his makeshift dagger. Footsteps echoed through the corridor, and this time, Spy was sure it was more than one person, his hopes raising and falling when the second set of feet sounded more like a bag being dragged over the floor.

 

The door opened, and a stumbling Scout was shoved in.

 

“You're lucky, punk! Usually, nobody patrols that area at this hour anymore!” the jailer scoffed, and the door fell shut for the rest of the night.

 

“Don't.” Scout lifted a trembling hand when Spy was about to raise from the mattress.

Spy obliged, watching the Scout closely in the dim light, holding his breath.

 

The young man avoided to look at him, but Spy already saw how the Scout's swollen left eye was turning purple. His bottom lip was bleeding, his chin covered with already drying blood. It was too dark to tell for sure, but Spy was certain to see bruises on Scout's throat, and he would have taken any bet that they would have the shape of a hand. Even without the injuries – the state of the disheveled clothes explained more than words.

 

Another bruise around his upper arm didn't leave any doubt. Spy could only imagine what dark marks lay underneath the Scout's clothes.

 

“Did you fight them off...?” Unlike the last times he had talked about anyone to be fight off today, his voice was gentle, almost purring.

 

Scout shook his head, and Spy averted his eyes when he saw the young man's chest tremble from the force of a violently held back sob.

 

“Did they...?” Glancing at him, Spy let out a long-drawn sigh when he saw the faint nod.

 

“All..?”

 

“One. Just one, when the guard...” Scout's voice broke off. He wouldn't cry, Spy could see that. After all that happened, Scout's determination to not cry was what he desperately needed to cling to the remains of his pride. Spy wouldn't convince him to do otherwise, not now.

 

“Come here.” He patted on the empty space beside him. After a moment of hesitation, Scout climbed into the bed and curled up, drawing his legs to his body and hugging them so tightly that Spy the bended spine would snap any second.

 

The Scout's head touched the side of his leg. Spy looked down at the silent figure. Finally, he reached for a corner of the blanket and dried to pull at over the trembling mess as much as it was possible, with himself sitting on it. However, he didn't want to move more than necessary.

 

Scout's eyes were open, staring into the distance. Spy wondered if he should say something, but whatever came into his mind was dismissed as unimportant. Whatever he had to say, be it of a soothing or reproachful nature, could wait until tomorrow. Instead, he removed his gloves, and let them drop onto the floor.

 

Carefully, his bare fingertips touched the back of the Scout's head. He twitched, but didn't say anything, nor did he turn away. With a sad, tired smile on his face, Spy let his fingers run through the shaggy hair.

 

They sat in silence. Spy's legs were beginning to feel numb from staying in the same position for so long, but finally, Scout closed his eyes, his breathing slow and even.

 

“Imbecile.” Tenderly, he stroke over the bruised cheek. He never had wished for a smoke so desperately in his life, but when his free hand moved to the pocket of his shirt, he sighed. Right. He was without cigarettes, and without the case.

 

“Quel petit con impertinent! This is not honorable! Les gendarmes en France sont plus nobles.* And not that greedy.”

 

The Scout winced under his hand, but didn't wake up.

 

“Oh dear. I think the trade was worth it. Do you not agree?” Giving a small, hoarse laugh, he leaned back, glad when at least his shoulders reached the wall. Still playing with the Scout's hair, he closed his eyes, hoping his uncomfortable position would allow at least one or two hours of sleep.

 

~ end ~

\--------

* "What an impertinent jerk" and "The policemen in France are more noble"


End file.
